Goblin Market
by Yxonomei
Summary: [yaoi, RikuSora, possibly disturbing content] Broken hearted, Sora finds himself spiraling down into an erotic nightmare.


**Warnings: **Slash/yaoi, AU, angst, dubious consent, minors of an unspecified age engaging in sexual activities, food fetishism, possibly disturbing content

**Pairings:** main Riku/Sora, peripheral Riku/Kairi, unrequited Sora/Kairi  
**Rating: **R  
**Disclaimer:** Owned by Squaresoft, Disney, et al.

**Summary:** Broken-hearted, Sora finds himself spiraling down into an erotic nightmare.

A/N: Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that she hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing her upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

A/N2: This piece was inspired by a Christina Rossetti poem of the same title. Additionally, the author does not condone the exploitation of real life children for the purposes of pornographic or sexually explicit materials. In fact, the author is rather terrified of children and avoids their society wherever and whenever possible.

* * *

:Goblin Market: 

_

* * *

Bend me_

* * *

A particularly spiteful imp bites the young boy's sanguine heart into two uneven pieces. Eyes a pellucid shade of ultramarine—star-shot lapis lazuli—glisten beneath a veil of withheld tears, pride allowing for no evidence of girlish emotion. It is the wind making my eyes water, he tells the dissevered fragments of that once strong muscle. They bump desultorily within their cage of muscle and rib. _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_

Blood-fled fists clench by the boy's side as he resolutely turns his gaze from the oblivious and blithe couple nestled together upon the ocean-bent curve of the small island's most notable tree. Just the wind. Just the wind, dammit.

Sora places each foot upon the loose sand with deliberate pressure as he walks away. A bitter kernel of anguish lodges behind his numb tongue and floods his mouth with the metallic brine of anger and betrayal. No, no, no no nononono, I did not see that. They wouldn't, couldn't… Riku knows how I feel. How could he… with Kairi? I liked her first, he rages within the claustrophobic confines of his own mind.

The wind kicks up, lashing against his face and finally dragging saline tracks across his flushed cheeks—and he is running, running away. Enough distance, enough time and all this will fade into dreamlike unreality. Not true. Not true. He stumbles, falls to one knee, and rises again, galvanized by the invisible fist crushing his lungs, the expanding kernel within his throat, to flee. His legs ache, his feet fail him again and again, his brain asphyxiates—black spots and silver threads weaving along his peripheral vision—but he continues. Do not look back. Do not speak a word.

Have they shared the fruit?

It started with two and then became three. Now it is two again, and Sora is spinning wildly on the edges, sea-tossed by emotions and slammed about by doubts. He is a shipwreck and he is drowning.

_

* * *

Take me_

* * *

Kairi looks terrible. She doesn't leave the house to play with the other children anymore. Sometimes Sora can see her haunting the window of her bedroom, the sun unable to penetrate the perpetual twilight of her room. He doesn't wave and she doesn't notice him. She's searching with shuttered eyes, always scanning the adust line of asphalt separating her house from Riku's. 

Riku won't be coming over anymore. They won't be having their dirty little meetings in the haunts of their shared childhood anymore.

Sora stands within the shadow of the tree below Kairi's window and watches as she flits to and from the window, gossamer curtains barely moving with her passage. That bitter kernel-stone swells until his convulsing throat closes upon the words he wants to call out to her, aborting them in their embryonic state: I'm here! See me!

It doesn't matter. She won't hear his voice. All she can hear is Riku calling to her after he has climbed the tree and invaded her window ledge, slipping with cat-paw silence into her childhood byre. But she can no longer hear the call, and all that fills her room are the restless currents of air that trail after her anxious steps. Sora has watched, biting his lower lip till blood, their clandestine meetings; he has seen Riku's silver head disappear within her darkness, blinds shut.

No more.

Riku hasn't said anything and Kairi refuses to, but Sora knows they've broken up—their wholeness split like an overripe fruit as it smacks into the unyielding ground, her heart so much sticky pap.

Sora's fingernails dig into the rough bark as his gaze remains riveted to the now-empty window. Kairi is happy with Riku. He makes her smile. Then that can be the only solution to this inexplicable conundrum of base, human intimacy. He must sacrifice the hemorrhaging pieces of his heart upon the altar of his friend's joy. He won't let Kairi be another one of Riku's disposable conquests.

Then they'll all be able to be together again? Right? Just the three of them, Sora a bit on the outside, watching over their love and happiness. That's how it will go. It has to. It has to.

Something pinches his insides and twists his viscera.

Best friends forever.

_

* * *

Fuck me_

* * *

The sword flies from his hand, tumbling point over grip, into the blue waves embroidered with white froth. Sora drops to his knees in the damp sand and squeezes his throbbing hand between his thighs, teeth pressed deep into his lower lip. A sensation composed of pain and a singular numbness seizes the nerve endings of the injured appendage. 

Failure tastes like blood and bile.

Like… sweet-tart citrus…

The sticky juices and fibrous pulp flood his mouth and trickle down his chin. Riku's adamant tongue presses against his, passes the paupu fruit between them. Gloved fingers dig deeply into the hinges of his jaw and keep his mouth open. Forfeit.

Riku pulls back, his aqua eyes gleaming with bewildering intensity. A strong hand clamps down upon Sora's mouth and another gently strokes his throat. Up. Down. Up. Down. A light press here, massaging Sora's gag reflex into compliance. He struggles against the hands, against his best friend, against the ineluctable fulfillment of his body's natural responses.

No. No! This isn't how…

He swallows, pulp and juice sliding down his throat, wet and slick, into his stomach. Nausea wriggles and writhes up through his bowels, churning the acid in his stomach, digesting that accursed fruit. His hand throbs in time with his heart.

With Kairi… Riku is supposed to share it with Kairi!

I wanted to share it with Kairi, he thinks, closing his eyes against the wickedly penetrating stare of his friend. Forfeit. The Destiny Islands bear strange fruits; fruits bathed in the warp and woof of all time; and on what foreign vernal shore did they first germinate, sunk their roots deep to bathe in eldritch pools?

"I'd never share this with _her_," Riku says as he presses the younger boy back into the night-damp sand, presses his juice-shiny mouth against Sora's, lapping up the spills, licking his way into the smaller boy's mouth.

Is this strange lethargy that fills Sora up called despair? No, it must be shock. Must be—

Ah!

His eyes snap open to gaze upon the wheeling constellations above. Ocean-cool air skims across his suddenly exposed chest. He shudders and clenches his uninjured hand in the sand as scorching lips make a decadent banquet of his chest, as a wet tongue bathes his peaking nipples with deliberate attention. Sora keeps his eyes focused on the coruscating pinpricks watching them from between the swaying fronds of the paupu trees. Implacable hands rub up and down his flanks, pressing here and there into every sensitive inch of flesh. The sap rises hot and molten in his body, and he twists and squirms, sand rubbing his skin raw and red.

Riku crushes the remains of the paupu fruit against Sora's pale belly. The younger boy bucks against the sticky-cool of it against his flushed body. He squeezes his eyes closed.

Ah!

Now he truly is a feast for Riku's delectation, and the older boy wastes no time in feeding off of the sweat and juices glistening upon Sora's trembling stomach. It's not supposed to be like this! Oh, how dirty! How wrong!

Gloved fingers, shiny and wet with the fruit, press past his parted lips and slide into the humid warmth of his mouth; and he has no choice but to suck, suck and lap the flavor and _slick_ from those pumping fingers. Suck and suck—and suck until his lips are sore and swollen, until he's suffocating on the spicy citrus odor of the moment. All the while Riku's merciless mouth consumes him, devours all resistance. A spiraling ribbon of tension jerks tight within his pelvis. The fingers leave his mouth—leave it open and panting, empty and wanting. Oh, please fill it up. Oh, please!

And he is filled; turned onto his hands and knees, shorts and underpants rucked down about his thighs, and filled in the dark, secret place that no one else is supposed to touch. The fingers move and he writhes, hips rising and falling at their lascivious command.

And Riku whispers moist words against Sora's spine, mouthing promises along the declivity where back curves into the pert ripeness of buttocks. Twist. Pump. Gasp.

Ah!

But Riku is gentle, so gentle, because little boys aren't made to be fucked up the ass by their best friends. So Riku has to be good to Sora, has to be tender…

Slow, easy glide in. Stretch. Strain.

Oh!

Riku!

Drowning.

_

* * *

Break me_

* * *

Soft-soled shoes scuff against the tile roof below Sora's window. There is no tree outside to grant swift access to his room, but Riku has always possessed a capacity for ingenuity and adroitness that surmounts all obstacles—reaching Sora's unlatched window is hardly taxing. It's easy. Like him? 

No, Sora thinks determinedly, wide eyes awaiting the appearance of his personal demon. I fought; I didn't win, but I fought. For what?

By the time Riku reaches the window, hair blazing like a platinum corona in the beams of the moon, Sora is already panting and sweat-dewed. He knows the outline of his boyish penis can be clearly seen straining against the worn barrier of his white underpants, cloudy pre-come dampening the material pressed against the head of his cock. Riku smiles, wicked and knowing, and says something about "really gagging for it."

Riku's electric aqua eyes burn as if backlit by lambent flames. An exquisitely painful shudder slides through Sora's young body, terror twining about anticipation. Things are going to be messy and dirty, like always. Sticky, red-black juices drip from between the older boy's gloved fingers. Ripe, lustrous dewberries fill his hand, overflow it and tumble down upon Sora's bedroom floor. The young boy flushes with heat, his vital sap pulsing through the delicate web of blood vessels beneath his tender skin.

Riku always brings succulent, luscious treats to fill Sora up, to stain his flesh and sheets, to dribble into dark, secret places, to be sucked and licked, teased and tantalized, until the young boy is as juicy and sweet as any fruit or berry. Riku comes often now, slipping into Sora's room with hardly a noise, stealing away before light with another part of Sora's innocence.

Sora lies supine upon his small bed and watches his… lover cross the short distance between them. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Cool, fragrant drops splatter across his spread thighs, his aching, clothed penis, quivering stomach, up and up and then down. Riku chuckles as he paints his squirming best friend. Bullaces, dates, figs, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, paupu, oranges, persimmons, pomegranates, guavas, grapes, currants, damsons, Sora has tasted them all, rolled each flavor upon his hungry tongue and swallowed all of them down, sucking, sucking, sucking. More!

And, whenever Riku asks him to whom he belongs, there is only one name that passes his lips as he tumbles deeper and deeper into this wet, glistening nightmare. Filled and filled and filled till he bursts, overripe and breathless.

Riku!

Riku!

No longer do his tender thoughts turn to the phantom haunting the house on the other side of the street. He doesn't wait for her. He has no words for her. Everything belongs to his best friend, his sensual, corrupting lover.

Riku!

Riku!

Twisting, turning, writhing, squirming, red-black sweetness running in dark rills from the corners of his mouth, empty, yearning mouth, juice-stained lips cradling frantic breaths, sobbing mewls, hands fisting strands of silver silk, Sora flows beneath Riku, surges like the tide and falls back with limp satiation.

Riku…

It's just the two of them now. Youthful limbs tangled together, sweaty and sticky, they repose in the humid tranquility of the completion of their intimate congress. Sora nests against Riku, pressing his slender body closer to the warm solidity of his best friend, seeking safety in the arms of the one who first took it away. Everything is just how Riku once predicted long ago.

Just the two of them.

Best friends forever.

* * *

End 

Historical Notes: Originally written in 1860 for children, "Goblin Market" by Rossetti was also later featured in a 1973 edition of _Playboy_ magazine, with illustrations by Kinuko Crafts: a highly amusing transmutation of a Victorian children's classic into a erotic article in a skin mag. Ah, what dirty minds the generations of the 20th century have.


End file.
